And the spirit that sat on her soft blue eye,
Is struck with cold mortality;
And the smile that play'd round her lip has fled,
And every charm has now left the dead.
Like slaves they obey'd her in height of power,
But left her all in her wintry hour;
And the crowds that swore for her love to die,
Shrunk from the tone of her last faint sigh.
-And this is man's fidelity!
'Tis Woman alone, with a purer heart,
Can see all these idols of life depart,
And love the more, and smile and bless
Man in his uttermost wretchedness.
THE night wind moans around me; there's a mood Of melancholy vibrates on its wings;
The soul imbibes its tones of solitude;
They bear a record of departed things,
Which haply probe the heart with forked stings,
And drive remembrance into former years,
And rex the mind with woe's disquietings;
While a dark scroll Anticipation rears,
Marked with a transcript vile depicting unborn cares.
Now sobs and howls the fluctuating gale:
Methinks I see the ship 'midst mountain waves,
Toppling and plunging as their peaks assail
Her crashing sides; while the fierce tempest raves,
And delves in darkness its unfathomed graves,
And straight refills them-to the sea-bird's cry,
Which screams a funeral dirge, 'midst rocks and
For drowning seamen; while the rattling sky Rolls its inconstant clang of dreadful harmony.
There is sublimity pervades the sound
Of wintry storms, although they bring distress
To wretched man: what organ tones are found
To match the peals of ocean's wilderness!
And even this tempest, though it sorely press
On the faint pilgrim, shrinking from its fangs,
Speaks with a voice of awful holiness!
And, in yon depth of forest glooms, harangues With an unanswered speech, that wakes conviction's pangs.
Sweet is the breeze of spring, that wafts along The breath of incense from unnumbered flowers, And the full anthem of the woodland throng; And sweet the gale that fans the summer bowers: And oh how doubly sweet is that which towers To loftiest thrillings in the year's decline,
Wailing through falling leaves and pattering showers! And dear the wintry storms; for all combine To demonstrate a Power, Omniscient and Divine.
THE way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheek and tresses gray,
Seem'd to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy;
The last of all the bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalry.
For, well-a-day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppressed,
Wished to be with them, and at rest.
No more, on prancing palfry borne,
He carolled, light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caressed,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He poured, to lord and lady gay,
The unpremeditated lay:
Old times were changed, old manners gone;
A stranger filled the Stuart's throne:
The bigots of the iron time
Had call'd his harmless art a crime.
A wandering Harper, scorned and poor,
He begged his bread from door to door;
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp, a king had loved to hear.
THERE is a Thorn-it looks so old,
In truth you'd find it hard to say
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and gray.
Not higher than a two years' child
It stands erect, this aged Thorn;
No leaves it has, no thorny points;
It is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.
It stands erect, and like a stone
With lichens it is overgrown.
Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown,
With lichens to the very top,
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
A melancholy crop :
Up from the earth these mosses creep,
And this poor Thorn they clasp it round
So close, you'd say that they were bent
With plain and manifest intent
To drag it to the ground;
And all had joined in one endeavour
To bury this poor Thorn for ever.
High on a mountain's highest ridge,
Where oft the stormy winter gale
Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds
It sweeps from vale to vale;
Not five yards from the mountain path,
This Thorn you on your left espy;
And to the left, three yards beyond,
You see a little muddy pond
Of water-never dry;
Though but of compass small, and bare
To thirsty suns and parching air.
And, close beside this aged Thorn,
There is a fresh and lovely sight,
A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,
Just half a foot in height.
All lovely colours there you see,
All colours that were ever seen:
And mossy net-work too is there,
As if by hand of lady fair
The work had woven been;
And cups, the darlings of the eye,
So deep is their vermilion dye.
Ah me! what lovely tints are there!
Of olive green and scarlet bright,
In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
Green, red, and pearly white.
This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss,
Which close beside the Thorn you see,
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,
Is like an infant's grave in size,
As like as like can be:
But never, never any where,
An infant's grave was half so fair.
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